We Shall Meet Again
by x-This-is-a-sock-x
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes was nearing seventy."


In 2010, if you had bent upon your knee and asked a child what the future would look like, they might very well have had colourful and inspired ideas. Flying cars, robots that could cook and clean, computers the size of a postage stamp.

2050 had no flying cars, robots that would clean messy bedrooms or computers the size of a postage stamp. What 2050 did bring was slightly cleaner air, polar bears that never became extinct, and cures for a handful of diseases that had ravaged the human race.

Man still fought. Man still committed crimes. Man loved. Man died.

Sherlock Holmes was nearing seventy. His once dark hair had turned pure white, his face gained many a line and his left knee ached every time it rained. John Watson - friend, companion and lover - had been gone for over thirty years.

It had been a Thursday. It was a particularly grueling week for John as the "Flu of 2020" had hit London with an iron fist.

"You are going to wear this scarf if I have to shove it down your throat."

In the ten years that John and Sherlock had been together, they had each given the other their own unique gifts.

John had slowly broken down the self-imposed wall that Sherlock had surrounded himself with. In return, Sherlock had held, very carefully, a mirror up to John and shown him that he was, in fact, worth something.

In early years, when the wall had first been broken, the mirror held up, the kisses between Sherlock and John had been savage and hungry. Each man was simultaneously exhilarated and terrified by their relationship. Lips would be sucked, tongues bitten, arms gripped and backs shoved against walls.

In 2020, the relationship had slowed. It was now a simmer upon the stove. Yet the aromas from that simmer filled their lives and their home and touched everything.

Mrs Hudson would have been very happy.

So, on that chill winter morning of 2020, Sherlock had cinched his own scarf against John's neck, leant down and gave him a kiss. Soft and chaste, as if it were their first time.

* * *

His name was Timothy.

Timothy was the first child of Francine and Arnold Wolf. They were rather lucky parents, as their son was an extremely agreeable child. On that Thursday morning, Timothy and Francine were driving to the shop for a purchase of nappies. When Timothy let out a shriek of displeasure, his mother turned to look at him. She hit John Watson with the full force of her car.

Francine never forgave herself. While waiting for an ambulance to arrive, Francine held John's hand and spoke to him in choked whispers. John, the man who had fought for Queen and Country, faced a madman and shown a genius the simplicity of life, forgave her.

"I hear a child screaming."

"He's teething, oh dear God. He's just teething. Why? Why did I look away?"

"It's okay. You're being a good Mum. Don't worry. Don't worry. It's okay..."

* * *

The branches of a Wych elm cast shadows on the earth below, touching a rose that was currently held by the steady hand of an aged Sherlock. A songbird fluttered up into the tree, sending tiny reverberations through the ancient sentry.

The shadows greeted the bird, picking up a conversation that had neither beginning nor end. "It will be quiet, that I can promise."

The songbird let out a sigh of laughter. "I don't know if he'll be very happy about that."

"I can ask now. Can't I?" The shadows of the tree's branches retreated from the rose. Far beneath them, Sherlock tipped his face towards the sky.

The songbird cocked its head so that one bright eye was aimed downward. "You've always wanted to. Go ahead."

"Why have you stayed all this time? You have an eternity awaiting you. Together. The pact you made cannot be broken by death. You know that."

Sherlock stood slowly and studied the tree with an intenstiy that the years had never managed to dull.

"What would you have me do?" The songbird hopped once, fluttering its wings.

"As an unbound spirit, you could go beyond the very binds of time."

"I don't want to be anywhere else but here."

"But why?" A nonexistent wind shook the branches of the great tree, making its shadow dance.

"Sherlock needs someone to observe, to record and to remember. What better than a spirit?"

"I still don't understand."

The sparrow flitted up into the air. As it did so, its shadow briefly caressed Sherlock's upturned face. "I have had eternity. Him? He has had a lifetime."

The breeze that moved the tree slowed and finally stilled. Sherlock shook his head and bent down, smiling at the sleepy bees.

"They do take their lifetimes for granted."

"Which is why I am here. To remember. He always did love discussing his life, his cases. We'll have all of it to discuss." The shadow of the sparrow lowered itself, and finally settled within the tree once more.

"He's very lucky."

"No. I'm very lucky."


End file.
